


Nothing Like The Sun

by yelenavasilyevna



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy, War and Peace (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Oneshot, can you believe I'm writing w&p fic in 2020, i miss them so much, is anyone still in this fandom?, just like war and peace!, sort of they're not rly enemies they're just idiots, this is the closest thing to smut I've ever written or will ever write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 14:28:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23712967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelenavasilyevna/pseuds/yelenavasilyevna
Summary: She can tell he likes his women better, this way, a little indecent, and she likes his rare, gritty authenticity. Few men can look her in the eye, the way he does, look for anything but charm, wealth, flesh. Dolokhov doesn’t care if she likes him, and it's freeing in a way she can't describe. It takes the shine off the woman her father has sculpted. She’s a little less marble and a little more coal.
Relationships: Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina, Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin, Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Anatole Vasilyevich Kuragin/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina, Fyodor "Fedya" Ivanovich Dolokhov/Elena "Hélène" Vasilyevna Kuragina, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 29





	Nothing Like The Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Sir that's my emotional support dysfunctional ship.
> 
> Timeline in this is a little funky, just don't think about it too hard, okay?

And so I lie with her, and she with me,

And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

* * *

He's sitting alone, a stiff drink in his hand, a deck of cards on his table. He's going to deal them, at some point, when he finds a group of men with enough alcohol in their blood, money in their wallets. For now, he watches, absently, considering. His regiment has been back for a week, now. The pit of Moscow is shiny and new compared to the battlefield, the barracks. And this supper club, reeking of wealth and dilettantism, of French perfume and French names.

One such dilettante stands at the bar, his shiny golden hair pomaded. Fedya knows him well. He makes himself easy to know, quick to spill information, quick to discuss his favorite topic-- himself-- at the drop of a hat. And what of his second favorite? Well, there's a woman by his side as well. He's very friendly with her, but Fedya doubts he's known her more than a night. Prince Kuragin likes women the way a drunkard likes wine: a fresh bottle, soon as he's finished his last. Prince Kuragin likes wine that way too, now that he thinks about it.

They'd become close, at war, if close was what you could call it. Friends might've been too strong a word. Circumstance had put them in proximity, wartime had done the rest. Dolokhov knows a great deal of things, about Kuragin: he is rich, titled. Married, by an unfortunate stroke of luck. Aside from that, he has a sweetheart of some kind (as most all married men do), a woman he never shuts his trap about. And Fedya knows far more than he'd ever want to about this mystery woman: late nights of Anatole waxing poetic, something no one needs to hear. Everything but her name. Kuragin is just a pretty-boy, morbidly unsuited to the life the army affords him. That doesn't stop Dolokhov from reaping the spoils of their friendship.

The woman, he realizes, not quite with a start, is looking at him. Anatole is saying something in her ear. He doesn't look away, just raising his drink to his lips, unfazed by Kuragin and his whore of the night. He watches her smile, say something back, push herself off the bar. She's headed his way. He doesn't give Anatole the satisfaction of sparing him a glance.

"Deal me in," says the woman, and it almost surprises him. It shouldn't. She takes her place across the table without asking for permission. He does as he's told.

She's beautiful, up close. She can't be much older than Anatole is, that is to say _young_ , handsome and elegant, dripping in jewelry a man probably bought for her. She's the sort of woman Dolokhov despises, flaunting wealth, flaunting sex. Her eyes are sharp, and they watch him lay his cards, her slender fingers wrapped around a drink of her own that looks all but untouched.

"You're better dressed, than his usual sort. You must be expensive."

She doesn't smile. "Too expensive for you."

"Yet, here you are." He gestures for her to make her bets. And she does, almost flippantly. She's not paying attention to the game, she's focused on him. If she wants to gamble away her money, that's fine by him.

"You know him well, then," she says. He catches her glance back at Anatole, but he can't say what she sees, he's already occupied with the game.

"Well enough." Better than he cares to, if he's being frank. He's won this round, unsurprisingly. His opponent takes stock.

"Go again," she says. She's confident, too confident for someone who's just lost at cards. She has money-- or else, Anatole is picking up her tab. Dolokhov doesn't put it past him to send her over just to screw with him. He probably thinks this is funny. As he deals, she toys with another comment, watching him. "The military?" It's not really a question. She knows exactly who he is. "Yes, you do look it."

He doesn't reply to that. He's being insulted by a high-end prostitute, he doesn't bother to be offended. But she doesn't stop there.

"I don't know what he sees in you."

"I could say the same."

And she smiles, a faintly amused, pretty little smile. For a moment, she almost reminds him of Anatole himself, a subtler version of his big, stupid grin. "Sure you do. You shouldn't lie to me, monsieur." She places her bets.

"You've come here to beg for compliments, is that it?"

"I never beg for anything."

He meets her eyes, ice blue, unyielding. In the blink of an eye, it's a challenge, the impassive line of her face, the arrogant turn of her lips. He knows those eyes, from somewhere, the unshakeable feeling that he's seen her before, that she _knows_ him, knows something he doesn’t.

He says: "Should we bet on it?"

She hums, reaching forward and finishing his job for him, flipping the last card. "Sure," and with alarming vulgarity: "If you're as miserable in bed as you are at cards, I'm sure to win that, too.

He looks down. Sure enough, she's beaten him, and not for an insubstantial amount. She's sitting back in her seat, all too pleased with herself, enjoying this far too much. He furrows his brow. "You _cheated_."

"Yes I did." She admits, softly but readily. Proud, almost. "As did you, Captain Dolokhov."

The situation clicks into place far too late for Dolokhov to salvage the upper hand, blindsided as he turns back to Anatole, to the woman, to the cards. To her golden hair, carefully twisted and pinned in place, the pearls around her throat. Her eyes. "You're not his whore."

"I am not." She reaches forward, counts her money, the carelessness of a Princess. "I believe you owe me an apology. To speak nothing of rubles."

Dolokhov almost can't believe it. But it's impossible to unsee, her face the mirror of her brother's, with only the coil of femininity to mar it. He shakes his head.

And then he's there, right on time, his hand on his sister's shoulder, kissing her cheek, her self-satisfied smile nearly enough to drive him to murder. "Dolokhov! Good, I'm glad you've met."

She extends a hand. "Yelena Vasilyevna." An introduction that would've been exceedingly more helpful some time ago. He considers ignoring her hand, out of spite. Instead he takes it: not to kiss, as perhaps he ought, but to shake it. She's just beat him, after all, she's earned that respect. Surprisingly, this only seems to please her. She's a peculiar woman, to say the least. She looks up at Anatole. "You have very poor taste in friends. He called me a whore."

Anatole laughs. "Already?" He offers her a hand, and she takes it, standing up. Dolokhov notices she doesn't ask for her money, but he fishes it out anyways, sliding it across the table. She considers it, a moment-- she doesn't need it, he knows that. If Anatole has told her anything, she knows he does. But it's a matter of pride. _Please, just take it_ , he prays. _Don't you dare humiliate me further._

She does, without a word, tucking the bills neatly into her reticule, the bizarre juxtaposition of cheated-out gambling money in a pretty silk bag that somehow feels perfectly appropriate, for the Princess Kuragina. 

"I'm sure I'll see you again, monsieur."

It's impossible to tell what she means, and he couldn't ask if he wanted to, because she's gone in a flash, on her brother's arm, back off into the night.

* * *

She’s right, as it turns out. But not that night. No, she spends that night with Anatole, they’re still catching up. She had worried he’d be different, when he came back, that war would’ve changed him. But he is every bit as ridiculous, as pompous, as arrogant and _bright_ and God she’s missed him. He’s the part of her that’s been missing. This stupid little boy. He’s sitting on her bed, his boots up on her quilt because he knows it annoys her. 

“What did you think of him?”

“I think he’s rude,” she says, and he is. Scruffy, almost, and far too ready to assume a woman couldn’t possibly beat him at anything. It has worked in her favor, tonight, but it speaks to a man in need of being knocked down, at least a few pegs. “I don’t like him.”

“Sure you do,” Anatole says, with the utmost confidence. He knows her, knows she likes a challenge, and Captain Dolokhov is nothing if not challenging. “I’m going to throw you two together.”

“Are you.” She sits down next to him, dressed down to her shift, the extravagance of the evening left in haphazard piles on the floor. She’s cold, and she reaches for his jacket, the pretty uniform coat he’s discarded, to sling over her shoulders. It’s too big on her, and she remembers when she was still taller than him, when they were children and they could share everything.

“Yes.” He has his arms draped over his knees, not a care in the world. This is a game, for him. Hélène doesn’t have to ask how well he knows this Fedya Dolokhov, she can tell. They’re not just friends. And of course, now he wants to share _this_ too, share _him._ Just like they always have. This is his idea of fun. Maybe it’s hers too. Depends how prideful she’s feeling.

“Very well,” she says, shifting down into the bed. “But I will be horribly disagreeable.”

He grins. “Shrew.”

“Scoundrel.”

“Whore.”

“Sodomite.”

“Sodomite? What, with him?” She gives him a look, and he can only laugh, kicking off his boots, slipping in next to her. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Not yet.” She leans her head on his shoulder. "I don't blame you. I mean, I do, he's heinous, but options must be dreadfully slim out there."

"I missed you terribly."

"Did you?" She smiles. "I didn't. Good riddance, I say. When do you go back?"

"Never. You're stuck with me."

"God help us all."

For all his talk, the next time she sees Dolokhov, it's not exactly Anatole's doing. Or maybe it is. Maybe she's underestimating his plans. In any case, it's late, too late, a closer friend of sunrise than sunset. She's in the stairwell, she can't sleep, wrapped in a dressing gown, her long hair left loose over her shoulders. She's not meant to be seen like this, by Anatole maybe, but no one else. And yet, there he is, sneaking out in the dead of night. He stops when he sees her, posed at the top of the staircase, an intruder, a statue. She glances over her shoulder. 

"Oh," is all she has to say, pushing herself to her feet.

"I was--"

"Fucking my brother?"

It catches him by surprise, and she revels in that, a win. It doesn't last long. "--leaving."

"Run along, then." They're both vulnerable, though they'd never admit it, her by condition, him by circumstance. The field is level. She leans back against the bannister, watching him approach her. He's stalking her into a corner. But this is her house, her territory. She stands her ground. "Don't worry, I won't tell."

She watches him consider her. She wonders what Anatole has said to him, if anything, if he's amusing himself playing both sides at once. There's a flash of cruelty, in his eyes, and something else, and he towers over her. It would take a hand, a motion to have her trapped. She can picture it, pinned against the railing, her wrist, her waist. Her throat? Maybe. He's insolent, or she is, and he'd like nothing more than to put her in her place. He could have her right there. But he can't trap her, not really. They're not predator and prey. They're competitors, and their eyes are locked like claws, jaws, a breath apart. 

"Go to bed, princess." He shoves his hands in his coat pockets, walks right past. A smirk plays at her lips. He thinks it's an insult, that title, thinks he can guilt her with what she is. She has no shame to exploit.

"Goodnight, Captain," she says. "Say your prayers."

* * *

He has her against the wall, and he’s fucking her, hard, just because he can. It was only a matter of time, after all. She’s called him every insult in the book, but she’s not saying much now, her hands do the talking, digging their nails into his skin, leaving marks. She has marks of her own, battle scars or something like it. All of it means nothing, less than nothing. He’s come here for the satisfaction of seeing her this way, ruined, degraded, she’s here for the thrill of fighting it, tooth and nail. They will leave and they will not think of one another, not until they need this again, the fire, the blood. They are bodies, to each other, commodities, disposable. It’s not what he has with Anatole, not quite. Anatole is softer than her. She is almost more man. But no, she is all woman, sin and sex and self importance, and Dolokhov hates it. He hates her, when he can be bothered to, hates the way she looks down on him, wants to hold her down and show her where a woman ought to be. And he does.

They collapse together, Hélène catching herself on the wall as his hands thoughtlessly let her fall. He retreats, he’s done with her, she’s done with him, they have nothing more to offer each other. This is how it’s meant to be, this is how they both want it. They bicker and they drink and they fuck, and then he goes home. She doesn’t ask him to stay, she never would, and he would only laugh at her. He’s buttoning his trousers when the door swings open. Hélène sighs, absently, like she’s more annoyed than anything.

“I’m busy.”

Anatole has a shit-eating grin, leaning on the doorframe. “You look terrible.”

“Yes.” She waves her hand, crossing the room to get her dressing gown. Dolokhov expects her to make him leave. He shouldn’t really be surprised when instead she says, “Close the door.”

He does, and Dolokhov grunts, pulling on his jacket. “I’m leaving.”

“So soon?” Anatole has paced inside, he’s watching them. He’s proud of himself, for this, his handiwork, his matchmaking. It’s infuriating.

“We’re done here.”

Anatole laughs. He’s been out, drinking, they all have, he and Hélène had only slipped out early. He wonders how long it had taken Anatole to notice, or if he’d just been busy himself, some other pretty face in the night. As always. They’re all a little drunk, but Anatole is forever the furthest gone, and for some reason he reaches up to touch Dolokhov’s hair. He bats him off.

“Stop it.”

Anatole pouts. He’s good at that. Dolokhov pushes him out of the way before he can say more.

“He’s embarrassed,” Hélène explains. She’s put herself together in record time, hair braided back, arms folded across her chest as if there aren’t still purple bruises rising on her skin. In power once again.

“Of me?” Anatole feigns offense. “Oh, Fedka.”

He gets the distinct feeling of being ambushed, surrounded. The Kuragins are opposite and equal forces, Hélène’s disdainful grace and Anatole’s gliding absurdity. And like opposing forces, they’re magnetic, and they have him caught in their pull. “You can have him, if you like. I’ve had my share.”

“I’m not something to be passed around.” Not another one of their possessions, these spoiled brats that think they own the world.

“I think you are,” Anatole says, still grinning like an idiot as he deposits himself on the bed.

“Yes, well not in here,” Hélène complains. “I need sleep.” 

“Mm.” Anatole is on his feet again. He kisses his sister on the cheek, patting her hand. Then he pushes past Fedya, histrionic as ever, shoving open the door. “You know where to find me.” And then he’s gone again. Dolokhov grunts. He's going to leave, he intends to, but Hélène says-

“I know you’re going to fuck him, you may as well get on with it.”

He doesn’t realize she’s right until she says it. She drapes herself over her bed, reclining, like she’s never been more at ease. He knows it’s an affectation, but it bothers him nonetheless. He scowls.

“Go," she says. "He’s needy. He likes his new toy.” She smiles. Catlike. Wicked. “So do I.”

* * *

She couldn’t say how long this has been going on. She doesn’t keep track. She just knows it feels like he’s here more often than he isn’t, like he stays for longer, bumming a smoke and picking at their wealth like he could number their sins by their reflection in the faceted crystal light fixtures, the marble bannisters. Hélène, marble woman, is smoking a cigar-- it’s not very ladylike, snuff would be more fashionable, but she can’t stand the stuff, the indignity of it. And she no longer cares to be _ladylike_ for Captain Dolokhov; They’d met playing poker, for God’s sake, that pretense is long since out the window. She can tell he likes his women better, this way, a little indecent, and she likes his rare, gritty authenticity. Few men have the balls to look her in the eye, the way he does, look for anything but charm, wealth, flesh. Dolokhov doesn’t care if she likes him, and it's freeing in a way she can't describe. It takes the shine off the woman her father has sculpted. She’s a little less marble and a little more coal.

She passes him the cigar, or else he takes it from her, and she blows smoke, drawing her knees up to her chest. It’s the end of Moscow winter, sunlight creeping into later hours with every passing day. She’ll be gone soon, off to summer estates, and she won’t be taking her amusements with her. She’ll have to find new ones there.

Well. She’ll have Anatole.

Still, she wonders, briefly, if she’ll miss him-- Dolokhov, that is. It’s an amusing thought. Better yet, will he miss her? She makes a mental note to tease him about it, later, and then she doesn’t think of it again.

“You’re pushing your luck.” She says. “My father is going to find you.”

Dolokhov grins. He likes the thought, she knew he would. Flaunt his catch. “So?”

“So, he’ll kill you.”

“Are you frightened for me?”

Hélène rolls her eyes. “I’m frightened for _me._ He’ll kill me next, and you are certainly not worth dying for.”

“I’d kill for you.”

She laughs, and there’s cruelty to it, nothing like her twinkling little society laugh. He won’t treat her like a princess, she won’t treat him like a gentleman, treat him to her sweetness. She’s tired of being sweet. “ _Anatole_ would kill for me. You’d shoot a man for fun, blame me later.”

He doesn’t deny it, setting the cigar in an ashtray Hélène keeps for moments like these. They kiss, tasting of brandy and tobacco and sex, her hand finds his hair and she is not gentle. Then she draws away, draws up, stretches her arms above her head. “Go.”

“I’m not afraid of Vassily Kuragin.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted to stay.”

He makes a face, nabbing the cigar as he pushes himself out of bed. Pride is the strongest force between them, it shoves them around, holds them back, strings them up. They’re both infected by an impossible case of pride, a greater sin than any, than lust, than fornication, than greed. Wrath. Hélène and Dolokhov know the mortal sins intimately, flirting with damnation from either side of a stained-glass mirror. She catches his arm again, before he can go too far, kissing him because she likes the taste.

* * *

“It’s not _fair!”_

Dolokhov lets Anatole shake him by the fronts of his jacket, just as soon shoving him away as if he’d ever tried to come closer. He’s drunk, raving drunk, and mad, the kind of anger that needs something to _break_ or else it’ll break the man himself. They’re not at the Kuragin estate, for once, Anatole has sought him out, in his flat he’d really rather keep Kuragin-free, thank you very much. But there was no turning him away, and he paces up the bare wood floor, his shiny black boots rapping ceaselessly. It’s no use trying to calm him. Dolokhov just sighs, shutting the door. “What,” he asks, though he already knows.

“She can’t do it. She _can’t.”_

“Can’t she?” Dolokhov laughs, ruthlessly. “Will you kill Pierre Bezukhov, then.”

“I ought to.” He almost regrets putting the idea in his head. Almost. Part of him would like to see it. _Anatole would kill for me._ “God, I ought to. I’ll challenge him.”

“A righteous cause.” Dolokhov sits down, pours himself a drink. He’s going to need it.

“Go fuck yourself.”

“As I recall, you were fine with this, a week ago.” Anatole is capricious, and while he doesn’t easily get upset, he’s hard to stop, once he’s gotten going. 

“I can’t believe she would--”

“Yes you can.” Hélène is an opportunist, and she answers to Vassily Kuragin, Dolokhov can’t believe she’s not married already.

“She doesn’t love him.” Anatole cries, as if that matters. “She can’t marry a man she doesn’t love.”

“You’re married.”

“That’s different!” Right, because it was him. Because Anatole could never fault himself, he’s never learned how. He’s selfish, and he wants what’s his, he wants her to himself. He’s an idiot. But Dolokhov has known that for a long time now. When he turns around, there are tears on his face, he’s crying for her like the fool he is. “It should be _me.”_

And there it is, the truth of the whole matter, the reason Anatole’s worked himself into this ridiculous state. He won’t say it, when he’s sober, but he doesn’t have to. Dolokhov put the pieces together himself, long before they let him in. He’s never asked-- it isn’t his business. In the game of him against the world, what Kuragins do behind closed doors is the least of his concerns. Now he just sips his drink, his arm draped haphazardly over the back of his couch. “Are you going to stage an abduction?”

He doesn’t like being made fun of and he kicks a table for retribution, which does little but send him into a cursing fit. 

“Pull it together, Kuragin.”

“No!” he collapses into a chair, but only for a second, and then he’s on his feet again, charging towards Dolokhov, who regards him with a mixture of apathy and exhaustion. He yanks him from his seat, although Dolokhov is twice his strength and really ends up doing most of the work for him. He slams his fist into his chest, which is about as effective as kicking the table. And then he sobs, falling face first into Fedya’s neck, limp and useless. Awkwardly, Fedya only stands there, motionless, his arms hanging at his sides. “I love her,” Anatole mumbles, partially obscured by the wool of Dolokhov’s collar. “Goddammit, Fedya. I love her.”

Fool. Dolokhov doesn't have anything to say. Of the three of them, Anatole is the only one with the abandon to use that word, and even he's taken this long. Hélène will marry Pierre Bezukhov tomorrow, and nothing will change. Anatole will get over it. His sister has more strength in her than he does. Where she is marble, he is porcelain.

Though he has learned they are not opposing forces, as he once thought. They are one and the same. They are not only siblings but halves of a whole. He's seen them together, in every possible context. They are all but one.

He takes Anatole by the shoulders, pries him off. He's still crying, he looks pathetic, and Dolokhov remembers him when they'd first met, when they'd been soldiers, or he had been, and Anatole had been a child, still thinking about the girl he left behind. It didn't take much thought, in hindsight, to put a pretty marble face to that yet unnamed woman. "You're drunk."

"I know that," he whines. He stumbles back a step, and Dolokhov catches him, steadying him into a chair. "What do I do?"

"Sleep it off." He says, picking up his drink. Anatole isn't leaving anytime soon. 

"About _her."_ He's so young.

He takes a breath. "You sleep it off."

* * *

She's sitting alone, a stiff drink by her hand in the home of Pierre Bezukhov, _Count_ Bezukhov, what a joke. She is the Countess, she shouldn’t be drinking like this, but she likes the way it burns her throat. She wonders if her husband will try to touch her tonight. She hates the way his hands feel, even more than his cock. And she is his dutiful wife. Poor Pierre, fool that he is, probably thinks she’s actually enjoying herself. He was easy to charm and easier to trick. But it’s getting tiresome. The truth is that she hates her husband. Can’t even bother to pity him-- why should she? He’s wealthier than her father, and married to the most beautiful woman in Moscow. _She_ has drawn the short end of the stick. He gets the money, the perfect wife, she gets _him._ She imagines telling him that, right to his face, telling him just how pathetic of a man he is. _I’ve been with real men._

The thought brings a smile to her lips. But it doesn’t last. She misses Anatole, is still not quite used to living in a house without him. Just to gossip with, really. To tell these things to, since she obviously can’t tell them to _Pierre._ She imagines her brother sitting at the other end of the table, his feet up, a bottle of wine in his hand-- make it vodka. He would laugh at this with her, and then perhaps it would be bearable.

He’s not here.

The man that does come is not the one she thinks of. But she’s surprised at herself, by how glad she is to see him. Not that she shows it. When Captain Dolokhov appears on their doorstep, she allows herself to be introduced, a private joke, and he bows to her, _Countess Bezukhova._ He must know how much she hates it. He’d never be respectful on purpose. 

“You’ve done well for yourself,” she says, another late night, another stiff drink. Pierre is God knows where, passed out or gone for the night, it doesn’t matter. They catch up. “You’re the talk of all Moscow. They call you _the assassin.”_

He doesn’t miss a beat. “They call you _the whore.”_

She doesn’t bother to feign offense, flashing a smile. Baring teeth. “Surely I haven’t done anything to earn such high praise.” 

“Not yet.”

They watch one another from over the polished dining room table. She entertains thoughts that Pierre Bezukhov’s wife should not entertain. She sips her drink. “You’re utterly predictable.”

“I think of it as _reliable.”_

“A reliable man.” She can at least rely on him to _be_ a man. “And a dutiful wife.”

He snorts, but she knows he likes the thought, that she is someone else’s, that he can take her from him. She knows better. She knows she doesn’t belong to Bezukhov, or to him, or to anyone else, for that matter. The arrogance of men, to think that they could possess something so terrible and brilliant as Hélène Kuragina. They all try anyways. Pierre, Dolokhov, her father, even Anatole. Let them. Let them try. She likes to watch.

She stands, setting down the liquor. “I’m going to bed.”

He nods. “It’s late.”

She folds her arms, pretends to read the clock on the wall until she feels his hands on her waist, his lips on her shoulder, and she smiles, knowing he cannot see. She turns, but she does not kiss him, they are a fraction of an inch apart. He pins her wrists to the table, kisses her throat-- lightly, and then to bruise.

“He’ll see that,” she says. She doesn’t sound concerned.

“That’s the point.”

They fall together. It's embarrassingly desperate. This is nothing new, but something has changed, not just lust and fury, it's a desperation from Hélène that she hadn't expected of herself. He takes her hips and lifts her onto the table, and she pulls him down by the collar of his shirt until they're both on top of it, messy and undignified like drunken teenagers. They're not teenagers, but Hélène is still so very young and so very aware of it. Her whole life stretches before her, with this husband she despises, and she is _desperate_ for something. To feel something. Alive, maybe. She doesn't know. She just curls her hands in Dolokhov's hair and prays he can give it to her. She needs to draw blood.

To fight is easier than to want. To want is easier than that other, tangled, messy, half-formed thought she refuses to entertain, has been refusing for some time now. Love, that poisoned word, a word for children and poets. Impractical. Hélène Kuragina is practical, but her love never has been. She loves men she cannot have. Perhaps she is not capable of anything else.

Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Well, this has been sitting in my drive for ages. Thought I may as well throw it to the dogs. Is anyone actually reading this? This fandom is so long dead.
> 
> Quick shoutout to a fic that was on here years ago and got deleted (wanna say it was called _Now & Then_) and also my conversations with users thewindandrain and lacedramblings for the inspiration for some of these scenes. This is my nostalgia trip.


End file.
